


Chiaroscuro

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 02:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim+Blair+sex=Romance</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chiaroscuro

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my editing help: Thomas, the Fannish Butterfly, and Mary.

## Chiaroscuro

by Sin

Author's disclaimer: I know, they know, we all know. We are a very knowledgeable group.

* * *

**CHIAROSCURO**  
By Sin 

Every time it is different. 

Cool gray light eases through high windows, touching everything in the loft with a sense of another world. Even Blair. Blair, highlighted stubble and pale skin - hair crackling as the warm breeze from the open balcony door swirls around him with its hint of ozone and scent of rain. 

I lean over the loft railing and look down on my partner, watching; watching as I do so often now -- as if Blair will melt into smoke if I take my eyes away. The rail creaks as I lean my weight against it \-- and Blair looks up, smiling with a whisper of a question in how he holds himself, ready to rise and offer help. 

I beckon him, a lazy motion that barely stirs the air, yet Blair's eyes darken and his indrawn breath hisses in the silence. Without taking his eyes from my face, he lets his pen drop, sets his notebook aside and stands, unsteadily for a moment, his hand bracing for balance against the glass door. 

I lean further over the railing, sensing the heat uncurling in Blair's body, heat so like my own. Blair straightens and his hand pushes against the glass, setting him in motion toward the stairs. I hear the soft swish of sock-clad feet, and I ghost over to the stairs, watching ... watching Blair climb, my heat building and reaching out for him, just as my hand reaches out and Blair's hand reaches back. 

Blair's pulse hammers against my fingers, soft skin over bone and muscle and blood, and I lift his hand to my mouth and kiss it. 

Blair sighs, his breath gusting warm and moist, with a bite of sharp cinnamon that makes me want to taste his mouth and share. He takes the last step, the step that brings him close, and I slide my hand up, caressing his cheek with one finger as he reaches up and covers my hand with his own, holding it against his face, the question asked and answered. 

The breeze dies, and the distant sound of thunder rumbles, its vibration deep in my body akin to my trembling hands, as I slide one hand into the silky curls and with the other pull Blair closer, the scent of him wild and woods and salt sea; drawing my mouth down to his, following to the source. 

His lips are cool and dry, and I spread moistness between them with my tongue, and seal them with my own. Blair inclines into me, touching me, letting his hands wander, opening his mouth and drawing me in, the cinnamon winding up through my head like an aphrodisiac. I drag my lips away and breathe, inhaling the scent, feeling it tingle in my mouth, feeling Blair breathe, hearing his lungs fill, feeling his chest rise against my own, feeding my hunger. 

I let my hands drift down between us, one by one slipping buttons from buttonholes, until the cloth parts and my fingers graze his skin, so warm, though he shivers at my touch. 

I step back, one hand bunched in his shirt - not letting go, and Blair follows, step by step until we stand beside the bed. The bed with its crisp cool sheets, where I can lay Blair down and lie with him, our very skin exchanging molecules and merging into each other. 

I want that, want the fusion, the merging I felt at the fountain, when my breath was Blair's breath and my heart was Blair's heart. 

I ease him to the bed and kneel above him, and Blair looks up at me with silent intensity, as if willing me to move. I can feel Blair's wanting, can sense pressure building -- and I abruptly duck my head and lick across a bronze nipple, already rough and hard pebbled, and then the other, while he shudders at the sensation, his breathing harsher now, harder. 

His face turns against the pillow, throwing his eyes into shadow, and light glances across his bottom lip, soft and tender, and I want that soft tenderness, but I need more than a touch, more than a kiss. I shift him and push his shirt aside, lift him and tug it from under him, my fingers slipping across his back, caressing down his spine only so far, then circling to grasp shorts and boxers and slide them down his hard-muscled legs and over his ankles. 

For a moment I let my hands slip under the arch of his foot, and he gasps something in one of his many languages whose words I do not know, but are warm and begging. I run my hands back up his body, feeling the hairs tense and rise to my fingers, iron filings to magnets. 

Blair reaches down to grasp my fingers and pushes them to my own boxers, turning his head so his eyes, silver in the light, ask for what he wants. And I give it to him, tugging my shirt over my head; sliding my boxers off, letting them slip to the floor - stepping out and back, away into the fall of light. 

And I watch him look at me. 

I don't know what he sees, but it pleases him. A solid body, flushing pink, a cock already half-hard and curving up? But he is smiling and his eyes are darkening and he is reaching up to me and drawing me down, his fingers laced behind my neck, his mouth taking mine, his tongue darting to sweep against my teeth, his lips against mine so warm now, so wet, and I break the kiss and slide my lips against his cheek and down into the warm woods-scented darkness of his hair to find the curve of an ear, a taste of metal that I set my teeth in lightly, and feel him lunge up against my weight as I push down, holding him still. But I can feel him tense to thrust up against me again, to rush to the place where we are going ... but not yet, not yet. 

I grasp his shoulders and turn on my back, pulling him; settling him over me so that I can feel the crinkled points of his nipples against my chest, and my hands follow the line of his spine all along its moist way, my fingers finally drawing softly to that warm tight place, where I delve and run my finger just around the edges. 

Blair cries out, pushing himself against my fingers. 

It is my name he cries out, and I know that if I push inside him now he will welcome it, as he did before. But I am paced to the day -- August lethargy in November light, and I will not hurry. 

I turn my head, scenting the pulse of blood in the vein in his neck, like old pennies, and I lick him again, the soft salt sweat sweet on my tongue. I suck at my favorite place, the place on his shoulder, and tomorrow I will feel it, hidden, when I touch him, a brand -- a little hotter with blood heat and the small marks of my teeth. 

I feel him shudder against me, the sudden movement of his throat against my lips, and I bring my hand down and up, slipping around, brushing his balls with the tips of my fingers, sliding between us and around his cock. 

"No," he says. 

I chuckle -- knowing that he wants to last longer, and I slip my hand up the shaft and into the wiry curls and up to smooth the hairs on his belly, letting my fingers follow the pattern of them, fanning out and feeling them, a hundred points of silk against my hand. 

He is sweating now, a fine sheen of moisture rising on his skin, and he settles his hands on my hips, smoothing back and forth along my flesh, as if he caressed a smooth worry stone. 

"So hard," he says his fingers possessive. 

And he presses his fingers deep into my skin, branding me with feel of the hot patterned whorls, a fine grit sandpaper that hooks his flesh to mine. 

I bend my head to Blair's stomach, my tongue rasping over the edges of his navel, dipping in and catching skin with my teeth, making him gasp. 

"What?" I say. 

"More," he says. 

And I give it to him, sliding my nails up across his chest, making him writhe. I like to see him like this, so wanting, the muscles tight in his neck, his head shifting back and forth -- this once no thoughts sliding across his face like mercury, here and gone, leaving me wondering. 

Now he is wholly with me, every part striving to be closer, tied to my hands like my soul is tied to my body, and I breathe him in, sliding my hands under his shoulders and lifting him up and delving again, deeper into his mouth so the air he is breathing out is in my throat, warm and moist and slightly bitter with his need. 

He touches his tongue against mine, sliding it across and over my teeth, and then up, and I nip at it, then soothe it with my own. Our lips part, and I take his breath with me, breathing it out in soft gusts against the damp skin of his neck, cooling his heat. 

Blair's hands are on my cock now, and his hands are warm. 

"So hard," he says, his voice teasing, "iron-hard." 

"Steel," I say. "I'm a steel-driving man," I say, my voice deliberately casual. 

And he laughs and caresses me until it is my voice saying "More ... God ... please, Blair." 

And he gives me what I need, making his hands a cup around me and I push again and again into those hands, and it feels as if I can never take a breath again because it will stop this spiral up toward something I must reach ... but Blair's hands fall away, and I gasp. 

"Not yet," he says. 

But his voice is shaking and I look at his face and see his need, and know is what I need, now and not a second later, and I grasp his knees and push them back and he slides them over my shoulders, his heels hard against my back. 

I slide down and set my mouth against him, against his opening, and feel him loosen and relax into my mouth, tasting of almonds and honey and oil -- slick on my tongue, and the salt bitterness left behind from both of us ... and I remember before, when the light was dimmer and he was half sleeping, half drowsing and pulling me into him -- and I can feel him relax his muscles again, I can feel him ready, and I am glad we did this earlier, before the rain, because I can take my cock in my hands and press it in and he can open and I can slide home so easily, and then he twists as if to take me deeper, and I follow. 

"Yes," he says, and "yes" again, and then he says my name, "Jim," he says, and I know that he and I are close, so close that I swell and we are closer still, and his heels press into me, and his hands grasp me. 

I push against him, feeling resistance, then feeling the pull, and I wonder at the heat, so hot inside of Blair, and the feel of my skin inside him, hot and slick, filling the space so tight, and I rock slowly, holding it, drawing it out, making it last ... wanting to string myself like a bead on the moment, hanging, hanging ... 

And he gasps, his eyes going wide, the blue swallowed up by dark pupils like windows, and I am falling into them and hurrying now, the push exquisite and ecstatic, pushing out and into Blair. 

I grasp his cock between us, my fingers feeling pulses as they build and build, and then he is shaking and hot moisture is spilling over my hand, and I spasm inside him -- impossibly bigger -- and Blair bears down and inside me there is a circuit closing and pleasure arcs through, electric, and I come and come and come until anymore would be more than I could bear. 

It is minutes before I move. 

Then I feel the small tremors that mean that Blair needs to ease down, to lie still and heavy in his skin, and I pull myself free of him and slide his legs to the bed, rubbing my hands over and over his thighs until he grasps my wrists and pulls me close to him. 

"Jim," he says again, on an exhaled breath that sounds replete with satisfaction. 

I roll with him, fitting us side by side so I can reach his mouth and taste him again, the hint of bitter tension gone and replaced by a honeyed salt of completion. 

We lie together, so close, our sweat unaware that we are two, and the air feels cold, so I pull the comforter up from the side of the bed and cocoon us, the sunshine yellow exposed, reflecting the butter light. 

Blair's hair is wet now, and tangled. I push it away and he smiles at me, skin flushed and rosy, and he reaches up to slide his fingers over mine, and our fingers wrap together in his hair, and we smile. 

A spatter of rain taps against the windows, and I hear the notes of it deepen as they strike the balcony, pattering like a spray of marbles as a gust of wind swirls through the open door, curls up the stairs, and despite the comforter, slides between us, a river of air. 

Every time it is the same. 

End 

"but in this moment together, in our secret unity Our skins become the still life, our souls epiphany." 

"Chiaroscuro" by Paula Cole (Harbinger) 


End file.
